That evening he did not touch the crossword puzzle. She had known he wouldn’t and, of course, she said nothing. Neither of them had said a word about what she had seen that morning and neither of them ever would. Her feelings for him were completely changed, yet she believed her attitude could remain unaltered. But when, a few days later, he said something more about its being disgraceful that a woman of her age was unable to swim, instead of agreeing ruefully, she laughed and said, really, he shouldn’t be so intolerant and censorious, no one was perfect.
He gave her a complicated explanation of some monetary quest ion that was raised on the television news. It sounded wrong, he was confusing dollars with pounds, and she said so.
“Since when have you been an expert on the stock market?” he said.
Once she would have apologised. “I’m no more an expert than you are, Henry,” she said, “but I can use my eyes and that was plain to see. Don’t you think we should both admit we don’t know a thing about it?”
She no longer believed in the accuracy of his translations from the Latin nor the authenticity of his tales from the classics. When some friends who came for dinner were regaled with his favourite story about how she had been unable to learn to drive, she jumped up laughing and put her arm round his shoulder.
“Poor Henry gets into a rage so easily I was afraid he’d give himself a heart attack, so I stopped our lessons,” she said.
He never told that story again.
“Isn’t it funny?” she said one Saturday on the golf course. “I used to think it was wonderful you having a handicap of twenty-five. I didn’t know any better.”
He made no answer.
“It’s not really the best thing in a marriage for one partner to look up to the other too much, is it? Equality is best. I suppose it’s natural to idolise the other one when you’re first married. It just went on rather a long time for me, that’s all.”
She was no longer in the least nervous about learning to swim. If he bullied her she would laugh at him. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t all that good a swimmer himself. He couldn’t do the crawl at all and a good many of his dives turned into belly-flops. She lay on the side of the pool, leaning on her elbows, watching him as he climbed out of the deep end up the steps.
“D’you know, Henry,” she said, “you’ll lose your marvellous figure if you aren’t careful. You’ve got quite a spare tyre round your waist.”
His face was such a mask of tragedy, there was so much naked misery there, the eyes full of pain, that she checked the laughter that was bubbling up in her and said quickly, “Oh, don’t look so sad, poor darling. I’d still love you if you were as fat as a pudding and weighed twenty stone.”
He took two steps backwards down the steps, put up his hands, and pulled her down into the pool. It happened so quickly and unexpectedly that she didn’t resist. She gasped when the water hit her. It was eight feet deep here, she couldn’t swim more than two or three strokes, and she made a grab for him, clutching at his upper arms.
He prised her fingers open and pushed her under the water. She tried to scream but the water came in and filled her throat. Desperately she thrashed about in the blue-greenness, the sickeningly chlorinated water, fighting, sinking, feeling for something to catch hold of, the bar round the pool rim, his arms, his feet on the steps. A foot kicked out at her, a foot stamped on her head. She stopped holding her breath, she had to, and the water poured into her lungs until the light behind her eyes turned red and her head was black inside. A great drum beat, boom, boom, boom, in the blackness, and then it stopped.
Henry waited to see if the body would float to the surface. He waited a long time but she remained, starfishlike, face-downwards, on the blue tiles eight feet down, so he left her and, wrapping himself in his towelling robe, went into the house. Whatever happened, whatever steps if any he decided to take next, he would do the Times crossword that evening. Or as much of it as he could ever do.
Splitting Heirs
by George Baxt
EQMM author George Baxt is becoming well known on the international literary scene of late, with the German translation of his novel The Greta Garbo Murder Case featured at the Frankfurt Book Fair and several other novels scheduled for foreign language publication. Here he treats a theme and characters only L.A. could provide...
Devotees of the obituaries in the Los Angeles Times (and they are legion) were titillated one Friday morning to read this one:
BENNETT, ARMAND: Age 44, of a sudden heart attack May 23. He leaves his wife of twenty years, Dr. Ruth Bennett, his mistress, and a pile of debts.
The mistress, who had a mental problem, was not amused, but the widow’s friends, acquaintances, and patients showered her with luncheon, dinner, and breakfast invitations and phoned to praise her audacious bravery. It was standing room only at his funeral and the Times sent a photographer. The widow sat in a front pew with her best friend, Maxwell Trumpet, an occasional writer for television soap operas whose own mountain of debts was all he had in common with the deceased.
Reverend Wister, said to be a descendant of Owen Wister, who had written the Western classic The Virginian, knew it was hopeless to eulogize the deceased as the obituary had itself become a classic within two days of its first publication, albeit it had been denounced by the pope and the Chinese Central Committee. Ruth Bennett had hoped there might be television or movie interest, but none had come forth to date, and she was still hopelessly mired in that pile of debts her husband had amassed and left as his dubious legacy.
Ruth and her friend Maxwell groaned as they heard the reverend extolling the late Armand as a respected certified public accountant (“Who had a problem with figures,” Ruth felt like shouting) who was a fine golfer and excelled at fly-fishing and contributed to the community chest. Said Ruth in a whisper to Maxwell, “I wish I knew how many community chests he’s contributed to.” Maxwell giggled and Ruth squeezed his hand. Good old Maxwell, thought Ruth as the reverend droned on about Armand’s good taste in neckwear, you can always count on good old Maxwell. He’s deeper in hock than even I am, and she was touched when he offered to pawn his late mother’s silver service to help defray the funeral costs. She squeezed his hand again and Maxwell wondered as he had wondered for over two decades if now there was some hope she’d go to bed with him.
Ruth’s thoughts were dwelling on the day Armand keeled over and the police arrived with the ambulance. One policeman questioned her and admired her for skillfully masking her bereavement. There was a tray of chocolates on the coffee table and she popped one in her mouth when he asked her, “Did your husband have a history of heart disease?”
“Not really,” said Ruth as she munched away. “He had a small disturbance about five years ago, but I always suspected it was indigestion. He liked to eat in exotic places, you know: Star of India, Mandarin Dynasty, McDonald’s.” She added with a sigh as she picked at a piece of caramel caught between two teeth, “Only last Monday I tested his heart and his blood pressure. Everything was quite normal then.”
“You’re your husband’s physician?”
“Yes. It’s cheaper.”
“And you signed the death certificate?”